


nowhere without you

by lucifucker



Series: the man comes around [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild torture, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 19:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17330672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: Curling in on himself, fingers fisting in his hair, he sobs in frustration, in anger, in loss.Such loss.





	nowhere without you

 

_I aint goin’ nowhere without you._

 

They taunt him. The words weigh on his chest, curl around his heart and clench tight.

The cell they’ve put him in is four glass walls, brightly lit from above by a halogen bulb. It’s perfectly clean, with a narrow white bed in one corner, and facilities in the other. Hanzo almost wishes it were a dark, dank hole of some kind, at least then he wouldn’t be on display like some sort of lab specimen.  

In reality, he could care less where he is, or what happens to him. Perhaps they will leave him here, and allow him the slow descent into desiccation that awaits him wherever he goes. Perhaps they will torture him, and the physical pain will distract him briefly from the grief that threatens to crush him. 

Jesse is gone. Whatever death Hanzo finds will be a reprieve from his absence. As he lays down on the bed and awaits his fate, he imagines an echo, a whispered memory. 

_Darlin’._

—

_The sun has long since set. The stars are an endless spread across the sky, the light of the moon making Gibraltar’s main dome all but glow. It’s coming up on winter and the air has a thin chill to it which bites at Hanzo’s exposed side. His eyelids droop with exhaustion, and he thinks of going inside, but it’s been a long, long day, and the sky is too beautiful to leave behind._

_His problem is solved when a familiar piece of red fabric is draped over his shoulders and wrapped around him by calloused hands. He leans back into the warmth behind him, and allows his eyes to flutter shut as the scent of cigar smoke and desert sand washes over him._

_“Tired, darlin’?” Jesse’s voice is whiskey-smooth, his breath hot against Hanzo’s cheek. His stubble scratches against the archer’s as his arms wind around his strong waist._

_“Mm. No.” Hanzo turns and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, and Jesse laughs, deep and rumbling._

_“Really.” He murmurs, and brings a hand up to cup Hanzo’s jaw. “Kinda seems like you’re fallin’ asleep out here.”_

_“If you are tired, you are welcome to rest.” Jesse laughs, again, and shakes his head, pressing his face into the crook of the shorter man’s neck._

_“Ain’t goin’ nowhere without you, honey.” He whispers, and kisses the bared skin at Hanzo’s collarbone, intimate, but with no heat behind it. “Oughta know that by now.”_

_—_

They do torture him. Electric shock after electric shock applied first to his temples, pads stuck to him and button pressed over and over until his head swims and his vision begins to fuzz, but he does not struggle. He does not cry out. Their questions are answered by stoic silence, their queries about his brother, his dragons, fall on deaf ears. 

Not until they begin to unwrap his hakama, move to place the pads on parts of him that aren’t meant for others, parts of him that belong to someone else. Then, he swears a blue streak, pulls with all his strength against his bonds and roars at the top of his lungs, not just for the pain, but for the violation as well. Because these hands are not Jesse’s and these eyes are not Jesse’s, and they have no place, here. 

He manages to free one of his legs, mechanical strength overpowering the leather straps holding it down, and kicks out spastically, catching on a chin here, a solar plexus there. He causes enough damage that they sedate him, and when he wakes the deed has been done, he is bared to the world and the moment his eyes open they begin. 

This pain, which lances through every inch of him, threatens to choke him from within. He cannot scream because he has no voice to do so, his trachea tightens, his lungs are thick with some unseen blockage. It sears his nerves, freezes his muscles. 

But he does not talk, at least, not in a language they speak, and eventually they dump him back into the box. He lays where they leave him, slumped on the floor, face pressed against the cool glass. When he can finally drag himself to the bed, he collapses on his side, facing away from the door, eyes closed.

He thinks of Jesse’s sawdust scent and his awful cigars and his ridiculous hat, and a tear leaks out over his cheek. The ghost whispers in his ear. 

_Aint goin nowhere._

But you did. You did, cowboy.

_—_

_Trapped in a corner with no escape, Jesse is a picture-perfect recreation of a cowboy having his last stand. Serape thrown back, eyes hidden beneath his hat, six shots left in his pistol and twelve Talon agents bearing down on him. If this is to be the end, then it will be a savage end, but Hanzo will not allow that to happen._

_He fires his first arrow. Bullets spray, Jesse ducks, throws a flash bang, runs up the wall and leaps above the gathered force, firing six shots in the space of time normally reserved for one, and half the soldiers crumple._

_But only half._

_Jesse falls to the ground ducking and rolling, but the other agents are raising their guns, taking aim, and there is no time for tricks and shadows, now. A hammer cocks, and Hanzo leaps._

_He lands in a flurry of movement, atop one of their shoulders, and the soldier crumples to the ground beneath him with a cry. He does not falter. Crouched on the ground, he twirls, slamming his bow into the knees of a second agent to his right as he draws another arrow, nocks it, and fires it into a third. He looks up in time to see Jesse flip the fourth over his back and land them on the ground with a knife protruding from their chest. Jesse looks at him incredulously, and then his eyes widen, panic flashing across his face._

_“Hanzo—!” A shot rings out, he feels his body jerk violently as he turns around and fires, shot knocked off kilter by the bullet as it grazes past his shoulder. The arrow bounces off the wall behind the remaining soldier and sinks into their back, and they fall. Hanzo turns back around, and catches Jesse’s gaze, blood trickling from the wound which mars his shoulder._

_Jesse’s eyes are red, his chest heaving with exertion, blood that does not belong to him spattered across his cheek. There’s a long, silent moment before Jesse seems to shake awake._

 

_“God DAMN it, Hanzo.” He manages, stumbling forward and grasping Hanzo’s arms iron-tight. “Coulda died tryin’ to save my sorry ass, the hell were you thinking?” Frantic, desperate, Jesse looks at him, expression imploring him to comprehend. “I coulda lost you, darlin’, you understand?”_

_There is still smoke in the air, still the smell of gunpowder, and Hanzo drags Jesse forward until their foreheads meet._

_“I did what was necessary to protect you.” He hisses, reaching up to clasp a hand over the back of Jesse’s neck, holding him in place, even as the cowboy shakes his head, attempts to pull away. “As I will always do.” Their eyes meet. Hanzo’s gaze is unwavering, his face hard as stone. “As you would have for me.”_

_Jesse takes another few gasping breaths and then closes his eyes, thunks his head against Hanzo’s, keeling forward slightly as his hands move down to bracket the archer’s waist. Hanzo leans into him, allows Jesse to bury his face in the crook of his neck, strokes his fingers through the wild hair at the back of his head._

_“Darlin’,” Jesse whispers, voice almost reverent, and Hanzo kisses his temple, curling his free arm around his cowboy’s broad shoulders. “Sweetheart—"_

_“I am here."_

_—_

They appear to have changed tactics, as the next several days pass without incident. Hanzo is able to keep track via the small window in the corner of the room his cell is located in. He is kept in complete isolation. There is no food, but neither is there more torture. No-one comes in or out. 

He knows he is hungry, knows that his body has been almost five days without nutrition, but he barely feels the empty pang in his stomach. From his seat on the floor of the cell, back pressed against one glass wall, he can see the sky through the window. The day brings nothing but clear white light and flurries of snow, but at night he can see the stars. He reaches out to the dragons a few times but receives no response; the circle of metal embedded in his back still sparks with new currents, still dulls his connection to them. Always, always, he thinks of Jesse. 

After four days of solitude, a man in a blue business suit comes in. He says a great deal of things, some of which Hanzo listens to, some of which he tunes out. The brass tacks of the matter are, apparently, these; if he tells them what they want to know (how he engages the dragons, where their power comes from, how it can be harnessed) they will feed him. If not, he will starve, and eventually mummify in his glass prison. 

He says nothing. The man waits, watches him for a long time. 

“Idiots just had to kill your friend.” He eventually spits, turning on his heel to leave. “Woulda told us everything right then and there if we hadn’t shot his sorry ass.” It’s a ploy, Hanzo knows, a jab intended to rile him into reacting, and logically, that should keep him in place. 

But logic has no bearing on a life without Jesse, and he crouches, coils, springs at the man, a movement that would normally leave his victim twitching on the ground. Instead, his weakened body betrays him, sends him falling to the floor, barely able to catch himself before his head cracks against the glass. The door hisses shut, and the man smirks from the other side. 

“When you give up, just holler.” He leaves, and shuts the lights behind him, plunging Hanzo into darkness. 

Curling in on himself, fingers fisting in his hair, he sobs in frustration, in anger, in loss. 

Such loss. 

_Hanzo--_

—

_The snow swirls about them like the walls of a tornado, and Jesse laughs as he fires off a round of shots from Peacekeeper, taking down three of the Talon assailants with a loud hoot._

_Hanzo cannot help but grin as he continues to shoot his way through the carefully advancing group. The wind howls, but he accounts for it in his aim, takes two down and has his sights set on a third when something white hot and crackling hits him in the back._

_He stumbles forward, convulsing as a current rolls its way through him, and collapses onto the ground, letting out a strangled shout as the current begins to center around his arm, his drawing arm, his tattoo, and then fade. Jesse whips around, fires two shots toward some target behind Hanzo, and begins to retreat in his direction, tossing flash bangs left and right, spraying bullets from nowhere. He uses the storm as cover as he moves backward. It’s incredible to behold, expert in execution._

_It’s just not fast enough._

_Hanzo’s struggling to his feet when the net ensnares him, settling over him with sudden force and then tightening, adhering to the shape of his body and as abruptly as he was tased, he is trapped, jerking against the mesh._

 

_It dawns on him like the crush of a sudden wave; his drawing arm, his tattoo. His_ **dragons.** _This isn’t an attack on Overwatch operatives. Talon is here for Hanzo Shimada. Talon is here for the dragons._

_He has seen what Talon can do. He knows firsthand their ruthlessness, their capacity for inflicting pain. If they want him, if their goal is not just to take down two idiot heroes out on a recon mission too close to their base, they will have brought more backup. They will have thought this through. They will have—_

_He realizes for the first time, with an ice-cold clarity, that he can no longer feel the dragons’ presence within him. Whatever this thing is, it has embedded itself in the small of his back, digging into his flesh, and, magic or machine, with it there he cannot call to them. He cannot escape._

_“Jesse!” He shouts, and Jesse turns from where he’s crouched behind a snowbank, reloading Peacemaker. His eyes widen, and he rushes forward, but Hanzo shakes his head aggressively. “Stop!” The cowboy freezes, an instinct born of endless missions and training days. “This isn’t about Overwatch. They are here for me.”_

_Jesse stares at him for a second, and then shakes his head, and fires another shot behind Hanzo, continuing to move forward, shaking his head adoringly as he goes._

_“Sweetheart, they brought a net. I think it’s pretty clear they’re here for you.” Hanzo jerks against his bonds as Jesse crouches beside him, drawing a hunting knife from his belt and beginning to work at the mesh contraption, but the blade yields no results, the net only growing tighter. Hanzo grunts, and clenches his teeth against the crushing pressure._

_“I can’t call to them.” He hisses, ears twitching as the crunch of boots on snow begins to grow closer. “They have done something to my arm, I cannot hear the dragons.” His voice Is urgent, pleading. “There are too many. You must go.” Jesse drops the knife, and cocks Peacemaker, sinking into a low, defensive position. “Jesse, please, run!” He cannot allow Jesse to be taken, too. He cannot watch as they dismantle the man he has come to love so deeply, so purely, so cruelly. He will not._

_Jesse fires off a shot, looks down at him. His eyes are spun gold. His serape is bright crimson against the snow. His jaw is set._

_“I ain’t goin’ nowhere without you.”_

_“Stupid, idiot cowboy,_ **listen** _to me—“ Hanzo is cut off when abruptly, the net is seized from the other side, and he is yanked away from the sharpshooting cowboy._

_“Hanzo!” Jesse rushes forward, but he has been distracted for too long, and a soldier emerges from the darkness behind him, one slamming the butt of their gun into the back of his head. The man falls to his knees, gaze unfocused, and the figure behind him levels the barrel of their rifle to his head._

_“Jesse!” He is roaring, now, thrashing violently, every muscle in his body straining to break free, desperate tears prickling at his eyes as he fails again and again to stop his slow drag away._ _“Please, no,_ **please** _—“ He is begging, begging their assailants, begging Soba and Somen, begging whatever god may be listening. The cowboy looks up, face open, almost listless, concussed and confused and the net must have reached Hanzo’s heart because it_ **hurts** _._

_“Hanzo--” Jesse begins--_

_The shot rings out._

_Jesse crumples into the snow in a heap and does not move._

_Hanzo screams, and screams, and screams._

_—_

Hanzo sleeps for days. 

Eight days without food or water have left him all but crippled, curled on his side. His muscles are weak, possibly atrophied, his breathing shallow. He flits in and out of consciousness, sometimes lucid, sometimes not. Sometimes he thinks he hears voices beyond the outer door, but he can’t be certain. Dreams weave into reality. He sees Gengi, three dragons circling his feet, reaching for him but unable to touch. He sees Jesse’s hat, then his spurs, then Peacemaker, but never his face. He dreams of the snow, and the wind, and the crack of the shotgun, the thump of the body hitting the ground. 

He no longer knows what day it is when the sound wakes him. He blearily cracks his eyes open, staring at the blank wall before him and listening, the haze of sleep still stifling his mind. He hears shouting. Crashing. Faintly, explosions, as though from far off. Gunshots ring out just outside the door, and the handle begins to rattle. 

Tired. He is so tired. Sleep claws at him, pulling him back beneath the surface of some deep, dark lake. He hears a voice, an exclamation, his name. The hiss of the glass inner door being opened. The light flicks on. He struggles, exhaustion rippling through him as he attempts to move and fails, barely able to lift a finger to face the intruder.

His problem is solved when a pair of large, warm hands gently roll him onto his back, before coming to grasp his chest, his arms, his face. He hears a voice, closer, now, so close it could almost be real, if he could just open his eyes—

“Darlin’. Darlin’, sweetheart, Hanzo, please—“ He knows that voice, he knows that burnt wood and sunshine smell. He can almost say it. His mouth moves but no sound emits. The hands are frantic, cradling his head, lips pressing against his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. Breaths exhaled hot and heavy against his skin. 

“Honey, look at me. Please, Hanzo, baby, look at me, come on—“ The ocean shifts. His eyelids flutter. He sees red, brown, unfocused vision slow to create the shape before him. The unkempt hair. The soft, auburn beard. The serape being wrapped around him. He tries again to speak, but his vocal chords give him nothing but the hiss of air as his lips form around the name. 

 _Jesse._ Wide, terrified, beautiful, perfect eyes. Stress bitten mouth that kisses his own again, and again, whispering against it. 

“Stay with me. Han, stay with me, please.” Jesse draws back with a gasp, and Hanzo must be dreaming, because his cowboy has never sounded scared in his life, but he turns and shouts with his voice shaking and desperate and louder than an earthquake. “WE NEED A MEDIC! MERCY! ANGELA, PLEASE!” Whether he’s speaking into a comm or simply hollering for whatever ears can hear is unclear. He cracks over the last word, throat seeming to give out halfway through. 

Something chirps, the com, perhaps, warbled words Hanzo cannot decipher, and Jesse growls a curse and tosses it away, returning to Hanzo’s side and taking one of his limp hands between his own. 

“Alright, now, darlin’, this might seem a tad undignified but you’ll thank me later.” Breathing stuttered, eyes wet, he reaches down and carefully, tenderly gathers the delirious man up in his arms, cradling him close. Hanzo turns his face into Jesse’s chest, inhaling deeply, and Jesse nudged his nose against his forehead, pressing a kiss between his brows. “I’ve gotcha, sweetheart. I’m right here."

Hanzo slips back out of consciousness, cheek pressed against ancient flannel, listening to that husky, hurting voice whisper against his forehead every term of endearment Jesse knows. 

 _Jesse_.

What a nice dream.

\--

_When he gets to the kitchen Genji is there, deep in conversation with what appears to be a living breathing cowboy from an old movie. The door hisses shut behind him, and his brother turns, waving him enthusiastically over._

_“Hanzo! I want you to meet someone.” Hanzo eyes his sibling warily but nods nonetheless, approaching slowly and allowing Genji to throw an arm around his neck and pull him closer to the stranger. “This is Jesse McCree. He just got back for the recall.”_

_The man, no—cowboy, before him grins and offers his hand, which Hanzo takes._

_“Lovely to meet ya, Hanzo.” His voice is low and unassuming, but his smile appears genuine. Hanzo meets his eyes and nods._

_“McCree.”_

_Jesse._

_—_

The next time he opens his eyes, its to soft blue lights and a woman standing over him, wielding a glowing staff with angelic grace, its power flowing through him, rebuilding lost muscle. Something tugs at his arm, and he turns to find an IV protruding from the crook of his forearm, a robotic hand holding his, a masked face listing against the edge of the cot.

The memories come back in pieces; the snow, the cage, the torture, the days of darkness, the return of the light. Jesse. 

 _Jesse_. 

He props himself up on his arm, pain lancing through him as he goes, but his body does not betray him as it had before. He feels a wave of headrush crash over him, and the woman ( _Angela_ , his mind supplies) lowers her staff and lays a hand on his shoulder as the robot, as _Genji_ sits up, visor blinking to life. 

“Hanzo, you need to rest.” He shakes his head, opens his mouth but cannot speak, his throat still raw and dry from who knew how many days without water. Angela purses her lips sympathetically, and reaches out, retrieving a cup of water from the bedside table. “Not too fast.”

He nods blearily as takes it from her, his hands feeling awkward and cumbersome, just like the rest of him, and sips carefully for a few moments, rabbit heart thumping away in his chest as it soothes his abused vocal chords. Genji is silent, hand having released his in favor of rubbing across his back, smooth motions that begin to work to ground him.

“Jesse.” He rasps, barely audible. Angela’s face softens, and her hand on his shoulder squeezes reassuringly. 

“He’s alright.” Genji murmurs, and Hanzo fixes wild eyes on him as Angela nods, motioning toward the door on her right. 

“His arm got pretty banged up in the fight, Lucio and Zenyatta are patching him up in the loading bay.” Fond annoyance ripples across her expression. "I had to sedate him so they could get him somewhere with enough room to do it. He wouldn’t leave your side.” 

The ice in Hanzo’s chest begins to thaw, but he remains disbelieving, dumbfounded. 

“I saw him.” He takes another sip of water, and his voice begins to clear, just slightly. “I saw him die.” 

Angela opens her mouth to reply, but is cut off by a crash from the other side of the wall, and a muffled shout of ‘Mercy!’, followed by a much closer growl; 

“God damn it, Angela, I said I was fine!” The door hisses open and Jesse stumbles through, left arm hanging awkwardly at the elbow, supporting his weight against the wall as the anesthesia wears off. His serape is missing, as is most of his shirt, and he’s without his hat. Wild hair falls in front of eyes straining to remain open, exhausted and angry and staring daggers at Angela. 

—

_Jesse has told him about Deadlock, about Blackwatch, about Reyes and Morrison and his seventeen year old self finding the parents in them he’d never had. He has told Hanzo about the last days, before he ran, the days when Reyes’ love turned to ash in his hands, as Reyes began to change in ways he could not understand, about watching his father become paranoid, bitter, cruel. He has detailed his escape, his regret at never saying goodbye to Morrison. He has explained the pain he felt when he heard of their deaths, the unshakable hurt that swallowed him the day Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison were killed._

_In all that time, however, Jesse never once cried. In fact, Jesse did not cry until the day they discovered that Gabriel Reyes was Reaper._

_That day, Jesse sobs. Jesse cries out in anguish, in despair, as Reaper disappears, as his ghostly voice hisses a bitter ‘did you miss me, mijo?’, as he vanishes leaving only black smoke and bullet casings in his wake. Jesse, on his knees outside the entrance to Hanumara, weeps for all that he has lost._

_Hanzo watches his misery unfold, watches his strong, beautiful, confident cowboy curl in on himself in the cold night air, watches him call after Reyes as though the ghost can hear him, first ‘Gabe', then a whispered ‘Dad’. When he cannot contain himself any longer, he surges forward, wraps himself around Jesse from behind and pulls him close as he shudders and shakes, cradling the taller man’s head against his chest, pressing kiss after kiss after kiss to his forehead, his temple, his cheek._

_“He—he never found me.” Jesse gasps, and Hanzo finds that he can think of nothing to say. Genji had found him. Genji had sought him out. Genji had brought him to Overwatch, to his family, invited him into his home and introduced him to a brother he had made in Hanzo’s absence. To find out that instead, his brother had been killing mercilessly and fighting against him for those ten years would have crushed him in ways he cannot comprehend._

_He settles for gathering Jesse up into his lap, and continuing to hold him, their cheeks pressed together, intimately close as they have only been with each other, every moment of Jesse’s grief a shared burden._

_He will mourn, but this time, he will not mourn alone._

—

“You were _not_ fine!” She counters expertly, voice reflecting the absurdity of Jesse’s claim almost as well as his appearance did. Hanzo blinked, trying to shake the feeling that he was dreaming once again, to banish the exhaustion which still clung to him. “You are not even fine, _now!”_ Genji chuckles, lowly, pats Hanzo’s back as he stands and walks back through the open door. 

_“_ That doesn’t mean you shoulda—“ Jesse cuts off, abruptly, staring at Angela, and then slowly, glacially, his gaze shifts to Hanzo, propped on the cot behind her. His mouth hangs open for a second before snapping shut as he beelines for the bed. Angela steps cleanly out of the way as Jesse falls to his knees beside the bed, eyes wide, searching, almost frightened. Hanzo finds that he, too, is speechless, unable to form a single coherent thought as he reaches out with clumsy fingers to touch Jesse’s cheek, his beard, his blood-crusted hairline, his cracked, chapped lips. 

“Let this be real.” He finds himself croaking, unsure if he is speaking to Jesse or himself. “Please, let it be real.”

 Jesse’s eyes pool with tears, and he shifts metal arm grinding slightly as he puts his weight on it to lever himself onto the cot. His right arm slides beneath Hanzo’s back, and gently lifts him up, pulling carefully until he can lift Hanzo into his lap, until they are chest to chest, nose to nose, Jesse bearing the brunt of Hanzo’s weight, using his metal hand to cup Hanzo’s cheek. The paper cup of water cascades to the floor, completely forgotten. 

“Darlin’,” He whispers, robotic fingers straining as their damaged relays fight to remain functional, face so close Hanzo can feel his breath, tears beginning to trickle down his face. “ _Darlin’_.” Shaking his head and kissing him once, twice, flesh hand fisting in the back of Hanzo’s shirt. 

“Your head—“ Hanzo gasps against his lips, fingers coming up to sift through Jesse’s hair, pressing across the shape of his skull and finding nothing, no dent, no bandage, no blood. Jesse shudders, and pulls him, if possible, closer, smoothing his hand up Hanzo’s back. 

“I’m fine.” He whispers into the space between their lips, shakes his head and kisses him again. “I’m alright, sweetheart, it’s a long story, but I’m just fine.” 

“Jesse.” Hanzo breathes, hates how small he feels as he presses his face into the crook of the cowboy’s neck, inhaling blood and tobacco and the residual scent of the cold, but Jesse’s metal fingers curl firmly around the back of his neck, Jesse’s holding him with just as much desperation as he is. 

“I got you, darlin’.” His voice is low, almost as rasping as Hanzo’s, and Hanzo can feel his labored breathing, every shake of his shoulders and clench of his jaw. “Took us so long to find ya, I was goin’ buck wild.” He swallows, thickly. “And then when I made it in and saw you on that cot I thought—“ Breaking off, Jesse presses his nose feverishly against Hanzo’s temple, and lets out a hard breath, body tensed, fighting to keep it together. “God, honey, I thought I lost you. I thought that was it. I was so scared to turn you over, scared'a what I’d find.” 

Hanzo grips tightly at Jesse’s waist, the back of his head, and seals their lips together with a searing heat, feels the strength of the dragons rise back up in him as he holds Jesse firmly in place, metal fingers scrabbling for purchase against Hanzo’s shoulder. The transport’s medbay alights in blue, and Angela lets out a startled yelp as Soba and Somen twine together in the cramped space, translucent bodies moving ghostly smooth through walls and equipment, curling protectively around the cot, one head on either side of the two men in the center, still clutching each other tight. 

Wreathed in the safety of his dragons, the warm embrace of his cowboy, Hanzo relaxes for the first time in days; the sheer knowledge that Jesse is here, that Jesse is safe, enough to lull him into sleep. When he wakes there will be explanations, debriefs, more time spent in medical to repair his massively malnourished body, but for now, he feels no hunger, no thirst. 

Jesse is safe. That is what matters. 


End file.
